


It's the Little Things That All Add Up

by robyngirlwonder



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Humor, Awkward attempts at friendship, Draco Malfoy-centric, Draco and Harry are trying their best, Gen, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Light Angst, Minor War Flashbacks, POV Draco Malfoy, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Short King Harry, Song Inspired, Songfic, This might count as a character study but idk, maybe? - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:33:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25273963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robyngirlwonder/pseuds/robyngirlwonder
Summary: Draco is trying to rebuild himself while also desperately trying to find any sense of normalcy in the post-war world.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 5
Kudos: 76





	It's the Little Things That All Add Up

**Author's Note:**

> So... yeah. I haven't written years and I've never written Harry Potter fic before. Here goes nothing. This is based/loosely inspired by the song 'Little Things' by Allie X which is linked below.

_I put my head on my shoulders_

_Try to be someone, yeah_

_I tilt my person three degrees_

_To try to get along, yeah_

_It's so uncomfortable trying_

_To fit into this skin, yeah_

_I put my head on my shoulders_

_Try to be someone, yeah_

_When the world outside_

_Is outta control like my mind_

_I take it all in stride_

_Why, why, why?_

_Why do I feel so calm_

_When everything goes wrong?_

_Is that what I want?_

_Why, why?_

_It's the little things I get mad about_

_The couch is so worn-in_

_Little things are gonna bring me down_

_Can't smile with a double chin_

_So while I'm waiting, chasing awakenings_

_It's the little things that all add up_

_Death by a thousand cuts_

_It's death by a thousand cuts_

_There's a physical reaction_

_When I'm craving distress_

_Yeah I might have to take it out_

_'Cause it can't stay in my chest_

_Don't I look better when I'm slouching_

_With a pebble on my back?_

_And the second I admit it_

_I wish I could take it back”_

([x](https://youtu.be/R3PHhC3mfos))

Draco knew that eighth year wasn’t going to be easy. He would be naïve to think otherwise. Hell, it was a fight to even let him return to Hogwarts at all. It took weekly, sometimes twice a week, meetings through the entire summer with so many Wizengamot members that they all blurred together into one middle aged, grey haired wizard just to even get his foot in the door. But of course, for a former Death Eater, that wasn’t enough. He had to write individual letters to every person he and his family had hurt during the war as well as send them a small parcel of Galleons as war reparations. Knowing his father’s previous crimes against the Ministry, business partners he had turned his back on and vice versa, and any half-blood wizard that set foot in his direction, meant that the Malfoy family fortune had been slashed by half and then some. 

When that wasn’t enough, the Wizengamot proposed, passive aggressively demanded, selling the majority of their property which was to be invested into various charities to “allow the wizarding world to heal from the atrocities of this heinous war” or however the pompous majority leader had put it. It left him and his mother the Manor and enough money for him to grovel and/or provide sexual favors for any measly job he could find for a year, maybe two if they budgeted well.

However, fate was a cruel mistress. Bleeding the family dry of their wealth and their dignity wasn’t enough. Not even being pardoned thanks to the testimony from the bloody Saviour of the Wizarding World was enough to return to a place that he only aimed to return to for self-preservation. No, he had to get two letters of recommendations: one from Headmistress McGonagall, and of course Harry fucking Potter. 

Since his trials, Draco had fully become aware and finally accepted that he was a coward. However, cowardice was no match for the stubborn pure-blood pride instilled in him since birth. As much as he wanted to run or simply disappear to the Manor indefinitely, he already came this far and he would be damned if he proved his naysayers right. With a long swig of his father’s aged fire whiskey and a sigh, he let his remaining dignity and will seep onto the parchment as he began to write.

* * *

Considering their thorny past as teacher and student as well as his crimes of repairing the Vanishing Cabinet and allowing the Death Eaters entry on school grounds, Draco was quite shocked at the speed at which Headmistress McGonagall responded and sent her letter to the Ministry. 

_Mr. Malfoy,_

_We have not always gotten along. However, I fully believe that any Hogwarts student should be given a second chance if they take their studies seriously. If you are to return, I fully expect you to do so or I may think about overturning my decision. Please take care, and if all goes well, we shall see you come September._

_-Headmistress Minerva Mcgonagall_

He brushed his thumb against the corner of the familiar Hogwarts stationary. For once, he was grateful for the pragmatic witch’s strict conduct towards education. 

His blood trickled cold as his mind wandered to how Dumbledore might have responded. He shook back his nausea at the hazy memory of the ailing wizard’s sympathetic gaze moments before Professor Snape took over, his wand coming to life with the vivid green sparks of Avada Kedavra. 

With a shuddering breath he darted from the study and ran to the garden, desperate for air.

* * *

McGonagall’s letter went over well and Draco felt his stomach weigh heavy as he waited for Potter to respond, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Sure, the Wizarding Golden Boy, or whatever new rubbish name The Daily Prophet had given him for the week, had testified in his defense, but that was only because he was a righteous git, the poster boy for good. Seven years of animosity would be harder to cast aside. There were no Wizengamot laws on the books for schoolboy rivalry. Even that was putting it lightly. Schoolboy rivalry was reserved for scuffles and insults, not attempted murder and being on opposite sides of a war.

Draco halted his pacing when the fire crackled loudly, the amber flame lapping violently against the ornate fire screen located on the hearth. He stood frozen in place, fighting to keep his breath even. He swallowed thickly as the fire subsided and forced himself to release the tension from his white-knuckled fists. He shut his eyes tightly and took a deep breath as he heard the gentle cooing of his mother calling him for tea.

The sandwiches tasted of nothing and he kept his focus on the swirl of his tea as he stirred it with his spoon absentmindedly. It was mere weeks before students were to return to Hogwarts. He quirked his eyebrow in thought. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to find a tutor. Perhaps he would have to do what he secretly wished for when everything came crashing down after the trials. Perhaps it would be for the best if he studied for his N.E.W.T.S on his own in the safety of the Manor. 

No.

His pride returned with a vengeance. When had he _ever_ let that prick win? He wasn’t going to quit now, after everything he’d given up so far. Come hell or high water, he _was_ going back to Hogwarts if it was the last thing he’d do. He held his spoon tightly in his grasp as his mind swelled with growing fury. 

However, the flame of his anger quickly flickered away when his traitorous brain reminded him of his arms wrapped painfully tight around the smaller boy’s waist as he flew them to safety on his broom, the heat of the Fiendfyre brushing dangerously close to their legs. The ringing of his frightened screams was violent and shrill in his head. 

Draco worried his lip and sighed. 

He owed Potter his life, that fucking arsehole. 

Draco forced down a small sip of tea as he felt his mother’s worried gaze try to reach him through the porcelain of his teacup.

Her voice was small and delicate as she murmured, “It will be alright dear. We will figure something out, just like we have been.”

He fought back a scoff and brought his cup back to his lips. They fell back to silence.

A faint hooting at the window made both Malfoys startle from their thoughts. Draco’s mouth went dry as he opened the window.

This was it.

His fate laid waiting between the talons of the tawny post owl’s feet. Draco traded a half-eaten sandwich for the letter and gave the bird a small pat on the head before letting it go on its way.

He picked at the wax seal with trembling fingers, barely taking note of the hefty weight of the scroll. He felt like he was going to be sick as he slowly unfurled the tea(?), coffee(?) stained parchment. Draco couldn’t help but take a moment to roll his eyes. Potter’s handwriting was as messy as the parchment his letter was written on.

_Dear ~~Dra~~ Malfoy,_

_I hope you and ~~Mrs. Mal~~ ~~Narci~~ your ~~mum~~ mother are well. First and foremost, I want to apologize for sending my letter so late. ~~A few things got in the way~~ I got busy_

Draco couldn’t hold back his irritated scoff. How dare he ask for a wee moment of The Saviour’s time? It’s not like a letter would take more than an hour or so to draft up, the bastard. He let out an undignified huff and carried on, merely skimming the drivel of his letter in search of the important bits.

_…Anways, don’t worry, my letter’s been sent to the Ministry._

_~~-Harry~~ _

_~~-~~ Potter_

A deep sigh of relief swept through the parlour.

_P.S. I meant to return this to you sooner but some stuff got in the way. Plus, it’s not like you could return to Hogwarts without it._

A lump formed in Draco’s throat as he gingerly unwrapped his wand from the rolled up parchment. His eyes were misty, as if being reunited with a long lost friend. His lips stretched out in a thin hopeful smile as his unrolled the rest of the letter.

_P.P.S. Please don’t be mad…_

And just like that, uncertainty began to roll back in like fog. 

_…I did give my recommendation for you to return to Hogwarts, under one condition…_

Oh no. 

Oh Gods no.

_…that you and I are dorm mates. It may be hard, but let’s try have a fresh start, yeah?_

The letter and his wand fell to the floor. His mouth was agape. 

“That crazy fucking bastard…”

“Draco Lucius Malfoy!”

He whipped his head up at his mother’s aghast tone.

“Sorry Mother.”

* * *

Platform 9 ¾ was its usual claustrophobic hub as Draco maneuvered his trunk through the maze of bodies and luggage. He took brief comfort in the familiar chaos. For the first time in months, perhaps even years, something felt normal.

However, the feeling quickly vanished when he became aware of the wave of hushed insults and frantic whispers that trailed behind him as he made his way to the train. He tugged gently at the silver chain fastener of his charcoal travel cloak to alleviate the growing choking feeling wrapping around his throat. He blamed the growing heat on the train’s billowing engine and the hot humid air created by sobbing parents and first-years. 

Draco quickened his pace and practically threw his trunk into the luggage compartment. He just wanted to get through the crowds and into the train as soon as possible.

“Careful Malfoy.”

Fuck.

His back arched like a distressed cat at the familiar voice. Every nerve in his body was telling him to crawl into the compartment or to bolt. He took a moment to collect himself before turning around to face his current(?) former(?) rival. Draco bit the inside of lip and did his best to keep his tone neutral. “Potter.”

There was a beat of uncomfortable silence as the two men faced each other for the first time since the trials.

They were complete opposites. Where Potter was short and broad, he was tall and slim. Where he was pale and cool, Potter was dark and olive. Draco had come in traditional wizarding robes while Potter turned up in muggle attire. Potter seemed to have also grown out his hair, the dark curly nest placed messily atop his hair in a small bun, while he had cut his own as short as possible, only leaving enough length on the top to have small layers of wispy fringe to frame and soften his angular face. 

Wizarding society saw him as a pariah who should be exiled to the Manor forever he figured, but Draco would be damned if he didn’t look presentable and, dare he say it, attractive and trendy in spite. However, he couldn’t deny his own insecurity at the change. He had been growing his hair all summer and thought about keeping it long for his return to Hogwarts until his mother stated he looked like a younger version of his father. As a child, and even well into his early teens, he would have preened at the comment. But now, it was… complicated.

An awkward cough broke him out of his thoughts.

“So,” Draco took solace in the small crack in Potter’s voice, “did you come alone?”

“Yes.” If he was going to be forced to live with his childhood nemesis/git who saved his life when probably shouldn’t have, it would be smart to actually _try_ to have a conversation. Plus, his parents would be appalled at his diminished social skills. “Mother is… not a big fan of crowds at the moment.”

“Right, understandable.” Potter brushed sheepishly at the back of his neck. “How is she? Your mum?”

“Fine. Considering the circumstances.”

“Yeah…”

The awkward silence was palpable.

A booming “Oi! Harry!” jolted both men. Draco clenched his eyes shut and sighed. He momentarily forgot that Gryffindors traveled in packs. It was truly impressive how quickly the golden retriever-like joy in Weasley’s face diminished the second he laid eyes on him. “Malfoy.”

“Weasley.”

Draco muttered a quiet “fucking hell” to himself when another garish ginger head popped up along with Granger’s bushy brunette halo of hair.

“Other Weasley, Granger.”

“Malfoy,” the women answered in unison. 

Draco fought back a panicked gulp. Their tone was icy enough to give him hypothermia. He cleared his throat and forced out the most neutral, unbothered tone he could manage. “As fun as this,” Draco gestured to the four Gryffindors with a lazy tilt of his wrist, “reunion, was, I really must be going.”

He counted the rhythm between steps in his head so it looked like he was striding away with purpose instead of starting to sprint towards the nearest open door.

“Draco, wait!”

Draco froze so fast at shout of his given name, he had to reach out to grab the handle of the door as to not fall off the platform and onto the tracks.

Potter was jogging towards him, his merry band of Gryffindors running after him. In any other situation, Draco would collapse from laughter at the various levels of shock and disgust displayed on their faces. However, he had to fight to keep his face neutral at the painful twist in his gut. Potter was suddenly too close. He rushed out, “would you like to sit with m—um, us?” Draco lost the battle as his eye widened in shock.

Boy Weasley and Granger stood frozen and horrified as if they had seen a ghost while Girl Weasley’s brown eyes glowed amber with anger as she wailed, “Harry, are you out of your fucking mind!?”

For the first time in centuries, a Malfoy agreed with a Weasley. Maybe Potter truly was the Saviour after all. 

Draco ignored the crack in his voice as he responded, “That’s quite alright. I’ll be fine on my own, thanks.”

Potter’s eyes swirled with something deathly close to sympathy or perhaps pity.

Fuck, he had said too much.

Draco would be daft to think that Potter wouldn’t have been at least slightly aware that he would be one of, if not the only returning Slytherin eighth year student. Blaise, ever the pragmatist, began planning his escape to Italy during the holidays during sixth year. His relationship with Theo became distant throughout the war, but he heard through gossip that he was already preparing for his N.E.W.T.S and looking to take them at the end of December if approved by the Ministry, the lucky bastard. Pansy refused to return stating that there were too many bad memories and fear of retaliation as were many of the other students and looked to transfer to different schools within Europe. His heart still ached at the mixture of fear and pain in her eyes when she floo-called him about it. Crabbe, well, he didn’t like to dwell on him for long. Goyle—Greg didn’t even respond to his owl until earlier that morning stating he wasn’t ready to talk to him yet because Vincent’s death still hurt too much.

He cleared his throat before giving Potter an unnaturally polite wave. “See you at the castle I suppose.”

He didn’t like the reflective, almost soft, look in Potter’s eyes when he responded with a quick “y-yeah.”

Draco turned quickly and went in search of an empty compartment. He drew out his wand and silently cast a Colloportus charm on the door before melting into the cushioned bench. He ran his hands down his face while exhaling a long deep breath. The journey to Hogwarts had barely begun and he was already exhausted.

With another huff, he slithered a hand into the inner pocket of his robes. He plucked out the small emerald drawstring bag Blaise had given him the last time he visited before Draco’s return to Hogwarts. He rolled the soft velvet parcel between his fingertips. In probably the kindest act of friendship shared between the two in years, the dark skinned man had given him a bag full of shrunken calming draughts, sleeping potions, as well as a shrunken bottle of firewhiskey in case of emergency. It was taking all of Draco’s will not to rip into the alcohol before the train had even left the station. 

All too soon, the piercing shriek of the Hogwarts Express’ whistle echoed through the station. Draco’s grip tightened on the bag as he lurched forward in his seat as the train began to move. He fought back bile. 

This was real. He was actually going back to Hogwarts. 

He looked back at the bag before stuffing it back into his robes with a frantic shake of his head. He forced his attention outside as he watched the scenery change from cityscape to countryside.

For a while he let himself fall into a false sense of security, allowing himself to watch out the window with a childlike wonder he hadn’t felt since first year. A smile was slowing forming on his face but it quickly faltered as he brought himself back to reality. 

He was going to be back at Hogwarts with Potter and the War Heroes as a Death Eater, a war criminal. No matter his pardon nor Harry’s confusing attempts of acquaintanceship, the court of public opinion deemed him guilty. 

His hands were shaky as he remembered the last time he had been on this train. He'd cast Petrificus Totalus on Potter and kicked him in the face. The last time on the train his mark was fresh, his task given, and the lives of his parents, and in retrospect his own, at risk. All the power he had been raised to believe was his was gone. It was nothing more than a toxic vapor still permeating around him, no matter how much he wished it would dissipate. 

Draco shot up with a gasp and cast a wordless, wandless Alohomora before running to the coach car’s toilets. He barely had time to slam the door closed before retching into porcelain bowl. He was too distressed to even care how undignified and unhygienic it was to rest his forehead on the cool rim of the seat. He laid there for a few moments as his stomach settled and the burn of stomach acid eased. 

With a disgusted, sigh he got up, flushed, and moved to wash his hands and rinse his mouth at the sink. He grimaced in the mirror at his reflection. The fluorescent light did him no favours. His sweaty temples and bloodshot eyes were too viscerally similar to the time Potter cast Sectumsempra and nearly killed him. He fought back another retch and looked at the faint bit of scar peeking out of his button down. What in Merlin’s name was Potter thinking? This was never going to work. 

Draco scowled. Maybe this was the prick’s plan all along. 

He worried at his lip before grabbing his wand to transfigure a few squares of toilet tissue into a small length of muslin. He wet the fabric under the cool running water until it was fully saturated. He took a deep calming breath before leaving the small bathroom.

He was busy dabbing the wet cloth onto his forehead when he collided with a tiny body. The banshee like wail coming from the little girl he had bumped into almost made him drop it onto the floor. Draco pinched the bridge of his nose as every single compartment door in the car slid open at the commotion. 

Brilliant. Absolutely fucking brilliant.

And of course, who other than the bloody Golden Trio and Girl Weasley were in the closest compartment. With a huff Draco forced his face back into its cool neutral state as he made eye contact with his future dorm mate. “Guess I haven’t lost my touch, have I?” He swept past the terrified, crying first year, hoping he had any fraction of the flourish his deceased mentor possessed.

He cast another Colloportus and drew the blinds shut. He laid down and covered his face with his transfigured compress and prayed to any available god to let him sleep the rest of the way.

* * *

The majority of the opening feast was a blur of the same false, overtly saccharine drivel about unity and picking up the pieces that the pretentious pricks in the Wizengamot spewed after his and his mother’s trials. Draco lazily swirled the pumpkin juice in his goblet to keep himself entertained. He just wanted the ceremonial bullshit to be over with so he could retire to his room and get drunk in the safety of his canopied bed.

All eighth year students were notified beforehand that they would be housed in a separate area of the castle with a separate common room due to “special circumstances.” Draco wanted to scoff. How was anyone going to get past the war if everyone simply pussyfooted around it? It was all bollocks. 

He nearly choked on his sip of juice when the little girl who thought he was evil incarnate on the train was sorted into Slytherin. Her skin paled and her lip trembled as she made her way to the table. She gasped in fright as she accidentally made eye contact with him. 

Draco fought the urge to roll his eyes as every head in the Great Hall turned and waited with baited breath to see what would happen. He’d clearly forgotten that the only thing faster than a golden snitch was the speed at which gossip traveled on the Hogwarts Express. He might’ve made grave mistakes the past few years but it’s not like he was going to murder a child in bloodlust, despite Wizarding Britain’s views of his family name. He raised his goblet at the girl and gave her a nod of sheer indifference before returning his gaze to the head table and waited for the sea of onlookers to turn back away.

* * *

If Draco would have told his younger self that he would one day be rooming Harry Potter, there is no doubt that he would be gloating and writing an excited letter home. Now, if he had also told him that it came at the cost of being stuck with not only a Weasley, but also a Longbottom, the excited letter home would have a much different tone. Exhausted from the ceremony and the current reality, it seemed they had all mutually agreed to not discuss the proverbial snake in the room, which Draco was grateful.

The only other saving grace was that the numbers from the houses of those returning back for their eighth year were so askew, it was mathematically impossible to have one Slytherin, one Gryffindor, one Hufflepuff, and one Ravenclaw per room. If Draco had been stuck with both Weasley and that prick Zacharias Smith, he would’ve began spouting pure-blood ideology solely to get expelled. 

Longbottom in the eight or so hours they’d been housed together was quite alright, unexpectedly so. Their only interaction had been a curt nod in the morning when Draco was on his way to the loo while Longbottom was leaving to head to the Great Hall for breakfast.

Weasley was well, Weasley. If his shoulders tensed any higher, he’d look like a gargoyle. He heard the brute’s raised voice as he reentered the room. It seemed like he was attempting to whisper but didn’t know the actual definition of the word. “Look, I trust you but I’m not sure I trust _him_.”

Potter’s mouth opened and shut before he responded. “I get that, it’s just—I don’t know. I’m just tired of fighting.”

Draco opened his mouth the clear his throat to announce his presence but it was like his vocal chords had locked. The two best friends shared a look that made him uncomfortable. It reminded him of his own friends that weren’t there.

“Yeah…” Weasley shifted on his feet and scratched at his cheek. “Maybe he’s changed, I don’t know. I just don’t want to see this blow up your face mate.”

Indignation forced Draco’s voice out of his pursed lips. “I can assure you I won’t be blowing up anything, Weasley.” The two men jumped at his presence, which gave him an immature yet gleeful satisfaction.

They shared another silent conversation before Potter patted the taller’s shoulder. “I’ll see you and ‘Mione at the table alright?”

Weasley sighed. “Alright.” The redhead gave Draco a trepidatious once-over before leaving the room. 

The childhood enemies stood in silence once more.

Potter ran nervous fingers through his hair and sighed. “Dra-“

Draco raised his hand in protest. “Malfoy.” 

A younger Draco would have skipped with joy at the thought of Harry Potter calling him by first name. However, that person felt long gone. He hadn’t had control over his life since fifth year so he was going to damn well control what he was called.

Potter nodded his head. “Malfoy.”

Perhaps Draco should have felt pleased at Potter taking his direction but overall he felt only disconcertment.

Potter huffed and his brow furrowed with determination. “Look, I know you overheard. I know this weird for you, it’s weird for me too.”

Draco couldn’t help the dry humorless laugh that escaped his mouth.

Potter continued undeterred “I don’t how you feel but I’m sick of fighting.” It felt like he was trying to slap the air with the force he used to raise his hand. “Truce?”

Draco’s vocal chords relocked. He stood frozen, staring at the tan palm of Potter’s scarred hand. What in Salazar’s name was going on? Time slowed down and it felt like he was swimming through mud as he tentatively raised his cold clammy hand to meet Potter’s. He didn’t trust his voice so he only nodded as their hands made contact.

A younger Draco would have shouted from the rooftops that Harry Potter had accepted his hand in friendship. Now, the closest thing he could say he felt was indigestion.

* * *

Draco cut delicately into his sausage. He took a small bite and followed up with a quick sip of tea as the familiar garish scarlet flash swept past his peripheral. He exhaled an annoyed breath out of his nose and rolled his eyes. He rolled his neck and shoulders as he prepared for the daily onslaught of howlers.

He cursed under his breath as the bright morning chatter in Great Hall dulled in volume. It was October now. One would think the other students would be used to it by now. Hell if he, the bloody target of the ire, could become numb to it, they fucking well could as well, the vultures.

Raging, echoing shouts of him being a coward or Death Eater scum were as mundane to him now as the scrape of a butter knife against toast, the clinking of dishes against the mahogany tables.

It wasn’t easy of course. For all intents and purposes, Draco was very much glad that the Dark L—that Voldemort was dead. However, in a dark way, he was thankful he was forced to live under his sadistic rule for so long. After the atrocities he was forced to witness and participate in, being called scum or a traitor was nothing. There were still time where it took every nerve in his being to stop from collapsing in on himself, but he refused Wizarding Britain the satisfaction of watching him crumble.

Draco’s fork was back at his lips when an exceptionally vicious howler bellowed “HARRY POTTER SHOULD’VE FINISHED THE JOB AND GOT RID OF YOU SIXTH YEAR!”

It took all of his determination to swallow without choking or gagging. His tightly fisted hand began to shake under the table and ice trickled through his veins. The only sound in the hall was the gentle clink of his fork landing on his plate.

Grey eyes met green.

H—Potter looked like how he felt. The normally warm brown skin of his face was becoming a pallid shade of beige. Even from such a distance Draco could see his body tremor. Nanoseconds later, there was a loud bang as Potter shot out of the Great Hall with all the power and speed of the level of seeker he was. A deathly worried Granger and an intense looking Weasley rushed out soon after.

Draco blinked rapidly in an effort to bring back his stony shield of indifference. He caught eyes with Zacharias Smith. He gripped his wand tightly beneath the table. It took every fibre in his being to not hex the self-righteous prick’s sneer off his grubby little face.

The firm clearing of Headmistress McGonagall’s throat brought order back to the Great Hall.

Draco froze as he felt the witch’s searching gaze on him. He finished breakfast in a daze. He waited for the majority of hall to clearly before grabbing his bag and heading to class.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Draco’s shoulders slumped at the Scottish lilt of Headmistress McGonagall’s voice, “a word.”

\---

Draco’s toes tapped rapidly in his shoes. He tried to keep his fidgeting as silent possible as Headmistress McGonagall made her way to her seat behind her desk. He risked a glance upward. His nostrils flared with emotion as he met the glassy black eyes of his former Head of House. Professor Snape’s lips were a firm line as he observed him. As always, the potion master’s expression was unreadable.

Draco’s fingers began to tremble and his lip quivered as Dumbledore entered the frame of Snape’s portrait. His eyes stung when the man gave him a gentle acknowledging nod of his head.

“If you gentlemen wouldn’t mind...” McGonagall turned to give the two men a firm look.

Draco’s chest tugged as the two former headmasters left the canvas of the painting.

McGonagall folded her hands on the antique desk. “I know breakfast has just ended, but would you like a biscuit?” She motioned towards a delicate crystal dish on the corner of her desk.

Draco’s voice felt like sandpaper. “No thank you, Headmistress.”

The graying witch’s expelled a gentle breath and pushed up her glasses. “Mr. Malfoy, it has come to my attention that you have been receiving harassment for some time.”

Draco couldn’t hold back a scoff. Bitterness and the snide drawl of his younger self bled into his tone. “With all due respect Headmistress, were you going to address this anytime soon or did having a certain Gryffindor student of yours mentioned as well send you into action? Or were you, perhaps, waiting to see if the harassment would go away on its own before you had to intervene?”

At least she had the decency to look guilty.

“I apologize for my lack of action, Mister Malfoy. It was a critical lapse of judgment on my end.” Draco rolled his eyes. McGonagall’s lips pursed and she sat in silence for a moment. “As you know, some… high profile students have their post screened before being delivered in the morning.”

Oh yes, of course. The ickle golden children of the war didn’t have to worry their pretty little heads over such things. Only the rabble had to fend for himself. Lovely.

“I would like to offer you the same.”

Draco could only offer a terse “thank you, Headmistress,” in response. 

They sat in tense silence.

Draco sensed movement and nervously cleared his throat as Snape and Dumbledore reappeared in their portraits. “Will that be all?”

She arched a knowing brow. “Take your morning classes off. I will notify your professors.”

“T-thank you, Headmistress.” Draco clutched his bag tightly and turned to leave.

“And Mister Malfoy?” Draco swore he could smell the rubber soles of his shoes burning as he halted all movement. He quickly adjusted the knot of the tie, trying to alleviate the choking sensation at his throat. “Do take a biscuit. I insist.”

* * *

Draco’s eyes bore into the mottled emerald velvet of his bed curtains. Sleep evaded him. The scene from breakfast replayed in his head. He still didn’t know what was worse, the words themselves, Potter’s reaction, or that there were times where he agreed with the sentiment.

He turned on his side with a huff. There was no point dwelling on the past. No time turner would magically fix their tumultuous past nor erase his part in the war. He would have to fix things the traditional way by starting anew and trying to become a better person and he fucking hated it.

Draco flopped dramatically back onto his back and sighed.

\---

The next morning at breakfast, Draco massaged his temples with his fingertips. He’d been up all night drafting his letter to Potter. He might be out of his element, but he would be damned if his letter was half the mess Potter’s was. He took a strong gulp of tea before folding the small piece of parchment in an origami crane. Before bravery could escape him, he sent it fluttering delicately across the Great Hall and waited with baited breath.

Draco’s stomach rose to his throat as the little bird landed gracefully on the edge of Potter’s goblet. He thought he was going to be sick as Potter unfolded the parcel with confusion. 

_Harry,_

_During the summer you extended the olive branch, so to speak. Consider this mine. Truth be told, I do not know how to go about this. However, I can assure you that I will try as long as you are willing to do so._

_To a fresh start,_

_Draco_

Draco’s fingers drummed anxiously against his thighs underneath the table. He brought a shaky hand back to grasp the handle of his tea cup. He took a deep breath as wild nest of black curls shot up and P—Harry’s eyes met his. 

With the last bit of bravery he had, Draco lifted his cup and gave Harry a cordial nod of his head.

* * *

“Careful darling, an aristocratic pucker doesn’t suit you,” was a phrase Draco heard many times during his childhood. It was his mother’s polite high society way of saying “stop being a little shit before I give you something to cry about” in front of company, mainly his father’s business partners. He’d still have the chip on his shoulder no doubt, which would be soothed with gifts afterwards, but he at least knew to stew in silence instead. That had become Draco’s coping mechanism.

Casting wordless wandless defense spells had become just as routine as combing his hair before breakfast. If he wasted energy going after every person who tried to hex him, he would flunk out of Hogwarts. Was it a petulant boil on his arse? Of course. Was it fair? Draco couldn’t answer.

The wounds of the war were still fresh. He would be a bloody pillock, to think that everything would be water under the bridge. People died, people were left hollow shells of their formal selves. He was the only available target, his own losses be damned. Besides, the Ministry and Wizarding Britain at large were foaming at the mouth for the opportunity to condemn him, to prove that he truly was his father’s son. It was in his best interest lay low and not take the bait no matter how hard his jaw clenched in frustration. 

He couldn’t control the reactions of other nor their mistreatment of him, so instead, Draco found other outlets for his rage. He focused his anger on how dry and hot the air in the eighth year dorms were compared to the comfortable cool humid air of the dungeons, or how the clocks in the classrooms were too loud when he couldn’t get the tables right near the doors. He hated when his quill dipped unevenly into his inkwell and left various shades of dark gray instead of the pitch black it should be, he hated when he woke up late and couldn’t shower first.

November was quickly turning to December. And, while not returning home was a given because he’d received notice from the Ministry cockblocking his plans for a normal Christmas despite Mother turning in the correct paper work _twice_ , nothing angered him more than the incessant squeaking of snow caked shoes echoing through the castle because clearly 90% of the school had grown up in a bloody stable. In many ways, he often felt like a tea kettle waiting to boil.

Draco finally boiled over on a quaint Sunday morning, the fucking audacity. It was a somber game of duck, duck, goose on who in their room would awake in a cold sweat from nightmares. Unfortunately, he’d been the goose that morning. Since sleep was out of the question, he sat on the way too firm sofa in the common room attempting to work on his charms essay, which he thought in a panic was due the next morning. 

The fire crackled harshly. Draco, still groggy from a Fiendfyre dream, shot up in panic and backhanded his inkwell into the stone wall. The piercing shatter of glass brought him back to life. It was only then that he realized that the essay was due the _following_ Monday. His hand now throbbed for no damn reason. Draco pinched the bridge of his nose and melted onto the floor with the grace of a flobberworm. 

He didn’t even care that his silk pajama top had shifted upward with his movement and the ice cold floor burned at his back, nor that the tip of his quill was digging into one of his dimples of Venus. Early morning light seeped in from the windows and began blinding Draco as he willed the floor to swallow him whole. If Hogwarts was truly as sentient as legend claimed, now was the fucking time to prove it.

Just when the morning couldn’t get any worse, he heard a door creak open. His mouth puckered out of existence when he heard the sound Harry’s over exuberant footsteps. Of course, the Golden Git trotted around like an excited labrador. No. Harry was much too short, his trot was more akin to a corgi. 

Harry had off days because he was still human after all, much to the chagrin of the Daily Prophet, but Draco often wondered what it felt like to walk around now with the weight of the world off his shoulders. For Harry, his job was done, his prophecy fulfilled. Now, probably for the first time if myth and legend were correct, the Boy Who Lived was truly free. For Draco, he felt like his narrative had been crumpled into a ball and used for kindling.

He prayed to the gods that Harry would go by unnoticed but of course now, the bastard chose to not be oblivious. “Good morning, Draco! How are you feeling today?”

“…I feel like shit Potter.”

Draco’s body tensed as tentative footsteps brought Harry closer. “Do you… do you want to talk about it?”

Draco exhaled a long sharp breath out of his nose. “No. No I don’t.” 

Timid fingers curled around the top of the sofa as Harry peered over the edge to look at the blond. He bit nervously at his lip before he pressed on. “A—Are you sure?”

Draco’s body began pulsating. He felt like a hunted animal being trapped. He turned away from Harry in an attempt to keep calm. There was a faint snap as he turned towards the hearth. In his attempt to roll over, his body weight had broken the quill beneath him. With that, the floodgates opened. 

“Yes, I’m bloody well sure,” Draco growled through clenched teeth. Biting threads of sarcasm wove through his tone as he ungracefully scrambled up from the floor to face the other man. “I’m just fucking _peachy_ , Potter. There’s nothing to talk about. Just happy to be back _here_ of all places, you know.” 

Harry stood frozen in place, his fingers digging into the sofa as Draco continued undeterred. His chest heaved in anger and he gestured wildly to his left. “Oh, what a lovely corner of castle. Here’s where I tortured students!” He aggressively swung his body towards the opposite corner, “and here’s where _I_ got tortured because I was “going soft” with my punishments. He took a large menacing step forward and framed the space in front of him with shaking fists “and ah, the Astronomy Tower. Such a calming place to sit and think, and oh, I don’t know, bloody well _kill_ the fucking headmaster!”

Draco figured he was a ruddy pink mess and that somehow made him angrier. His mind was going a kilometer a minute. He felt like he was going mad, like that disowned cousin of Mother’s, the dog bloke. 

He turned his ire towards Harry. “And _you!_ ” His index finger trembled as pointed sharply at the bespectacled git. “I had finally accepted my fate that I wasn’t going to make it through, but oh no, the fucking _saviour_ had to turn his attention on his enemy and be the fucking bigger person and save me!”

“Draco, y—“

“—No! You don’t get to tell me I didn’t deserve to die! It would have been a hell of a lot easier if you just let me burn, you fucking ingrate!” Draco’s whole body pulsed with adrenaline at the confession. Angry tears pricked at his vision. “But of course that wasn’t all. You needed to march in in all your fucking golden glory and testify on my behalf when you bloody well should’ve just left me to rot in Azkaban with my father and all the other Death Eater riffraff. Now I have to learn how to be a better person when I only know how to be fucking miserable or the annoying pretentious brat from first year and I hate it Potter, I fucking _hate_ it!”

Shaky hands ran through silk hair as the fire in his body began to cease. Dread filled in the craters left behind from his rage. He forced himself to look P—Harry in the eye. Their relationship had the strength of tissue paper. His stomach was in throat but he couldn’t deny the thrill that perhaps a fight would finally set the world right again, that there was still a hint of the normalcy he desperately craved.

Harry’s brow was set in a deep furrow, his jaw tense. At some point during Draco’s monologue, he’d pried his hands off the sofa and placed them at his side. Draco closed his eyes and waited for the familiar feeling of fist against chest and he clenched his stomach in preparation as the shorter man took determined steps forward.

Draco’s eyes shot open and he coughed as something bony dug into his sternum and squeezed the remaining air out of his body. His body went rigid as he registered the feeling of Harry’s arms wrapped painfully tight around him. Merlin’s tits. The bastard was _hugging_ him.

“H-harry,” Draco wheezed, “you can let go now.”

“Shit! Sorry!” Harry’s apology rumbled against his chest.” The man’s dark arms flew off him in a flash. He took a step back and bashfully rubbed his hand against the back of his neck. “I kind of learned how to comfort people from Mol—Mrs. Weasley… and Ron. And, well, that’s how they do it. Sorry about that. Again.”

Draco’s eyes blinked rapidly as he tried to make sense of what the ever-loving fuck was happening. “…Ah.”

Harry’s voice cracked. “Anyways I—“

“—Mornin’ Harry, Malfoy.”

Harry was cut off as Longbottom walked down the steps into the common room. He gave the two a brief once-over. “Everything alright?”

Draco’s lips parted but no sound came out. 

Of course Potter—Harry, ever the saviour, rushed in to save him once more, the prick. “Yeah, peachy.”

**Author's Note:**

> Well, that was a thing. The only way to shake off the rust is to publish even if it terrifies me. I hope you enjoyed.


End file.
